


coming home to roost

by Skyuni123



Category: Maleficent (Disney Movies)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, Painplay, Trust Issues, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, post Maleficent 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-02-01 05:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21394663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyuni123/pseuds/Skyuni123
Summary: Diaval likes helping Maleficent.Like... really likes it.
Relationships: Diaval/Maleficent (Disney)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 251





	1. Chapter 1

It’s dawn, a few days after it all happened, and the light’s just glistening off the edge of Maleficent’s wings when Diaval asks her.

In the distance, the Dark Fey are sounding off their morning call. In the greater distance, she can just see the people of Ulstead rebuilding the tower of their castle. She supposes propriety would suggest she should feel bad about that, but she doesn’t.

Diaval swoops down and sits on the tree branch next to her. It’s habit, almost, for her to raise a finger and transform him to human, but he does it himself before she can. If there’s one thing that’s not been annoying about giving him his freedom, it’s that she doesn’t have to make the effort.

“So, mistress,” he asks, because despite his freedom, he can’t seem to shake the moniker. She doesn’t mind, in truth, she rather likes it. “Now that your people are free- are you- ...uh, going to be spending more time with them?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” She asks, in lieu of answering, because the whole subject is a bit tricky. The Dark Fey understand her - as much as anyone can understand a direct descendent of the Phoenix themselves - and they’d never persecute her like the humans do.

However, they’re still wary. There’s still distance. It’s… tricky.

Diaval wrinkles up his nose and looks away, with what looks like a faint blush tinting his cheeks. “I would never, it’s just-”

He’s nervous, she realises. It’s something she could ridicule him for, but that’d take effort, and right here, out in the warmth of the sun and the gentle brush of the breeze, she doesn’t want to ruin things. “Speak, Diaval. You have a tongue for a reason.”

“I didn’t used-” He stops, takes a breath. In a way that’s clearly meant to be subtle, but isn’t, he asks, “The others. Now you have… family- is there- uh, Borro has been spending more time around here lately?” 

It only takes her a moment to understand, and she’s horrified at the thought. “Borro does not have the intellect to see past his own ego, and I believe he has three wives besides.” She laughs, and bares her teeth at him a little, just to see him squirm, “I would eat him alive.” 

But he doesn’t squirm away, doesn’t brush her off in embarrassment. “Yes…” He says slowly, and doesn’t look away from her, “I believe you would.”

Maleficent does not tarry with Men, has not done so since Stefan and the drink and the wi- 

She will not tarry with Men. 

-

Their kingdoms united, Ulstead and the Moors fight off enemy invaders from across the sea. It is a violent, bloody battle - and despite Maleficent’s magic, the battle is hard-won, though hard-won by their own side. 

Wings ruffled and soaked with blood, with wounds all along her chest and back, she stumbles back to the Moors after the battle, sinks down at the base of her tree, and just about manages to summon the energy to will her wounds closed. There’s nothing she can do about the blood, about the loose feathers and the clipped edges right now, but they can wait.

The victory in her heart ebbs away and she’s just left with exhaustion, bone-deep and thorough. She doesn’t even think she can fly up to the top of the tree to rest.

She lies her head back against the tree and tries to sleep. 

It is a fitful, restless thing, full of the bubbling sourness of magic and the sharp tang of iron. She does not find much solace in rest and wakes every so often to feel dried blood pull at her feathers and knitted-over wounds throb with pain. 

Magic helps, but only a little. There are some things she cannot cure.

She whines, sharply, through her teeth and wakes again - it is agitating, this pain, and she wants nothing more to lash out - but more than that, she just wants to sleep.

“Mistress.” Diaval stands beside her, a sceptre in the black of the night. He appears to be holding a basket of some sort. “May I sit?”

“Yes.” She says, though she does not necessarily want it to be so. “Why are you not sleeping?”

  
“With respect, it is fairly hard to when you keep on calling out in your sleep.” He says, softly, and perches on a tree root beside her. “The wood nymphs and such didn’t notice - but I, uh…” 

“Was I really that loud?” She asks.

“They are not so acquainted with the sounds of your pain.” He says, gently, and shrugs, “I know it better. It… sticks out… more, to me.”

“Oh.” 

The fact that he  _ cares  _ is alarming. It reminds her of the past. She doesn’t like it. A shard of ice in her heart, she asks, “Why are you here?”

“You sounded in pain.” He replies, simply. “I want to help.” 

“Help how?” She asks, curling her wings more tightly around herself. The motion pulls on dried blood and loose feathers, and it  _ stings.  _

“Your wings - I can-” He holds out a hand, and it’s too much, too fast. 

“No!” She hisses, and presses away from him, the anger and fear and  _ violence  _ flaming in her heart. “Don’t you  _ dare.  _ You have no idea-”

“I’ve lived with wings for the entirety of my life, Mistress. Have I done anything- anything at all- in the eternity we’ve spent together for you not to trust me?”

The look in his eyes isn’t enough, and neither is his position. It’s the memories - even at her worst, he has never left. He has never hurt her. “I do not trust Men.” She says, slowly, and uncurls her wings, a tendon at a time.

“I am no Man.” He replies, and that is the earnest truth. 


	2. Chapter 2

Diaval starts on her outermost feathers, taking care to straighten and flatten those out that had been bent in the fight. He plucks a couple, too, and she hisses at him - not hurt by the sudden pain, just a little surprised.

He just scrunches his nose up at her, hisses back, and continues with his ministrations along the flat edge of her wings.

He’s enjoying this, she notices. He likes what he’s doing. Gods, he’s practically doing it _cheerfully. _If he were any other creature, a Man or some sort, he’d probably be whistling “You like this…” She says, and enjoys the faint pinking of his cheeks at the words. “You like doing things for me.” 

He looks back at her, gently, but not sheepishly. “I suppose I do. Is that a problem, mistress?”

“Oh, not at all.” She brushes a single fingernail along his cheek, and likes the tiny red mark it leaves. “Do continue.”

If it were any other creature, any other Man, she’d worry. And she still does  _ fret  _ a little, when his hands glide up along the tops and sides, right where her skin is thinnest.

She can  _ feel  _ him, and it’s a little too much, when he reaches the join between wing and her back, right where Stefan had-

“Stop.” She says, and pushes him back. She moves to fly, to stand, but everything aches and she just… can’t. “Stop. No. That’s- this is enough. You’ve done enough.” 

Diaval stops. He sits back, doesn’t move, doesn’t even reach out a hand to her. “Okay.” 

“What.” She asks, because it doesn’t feel like enough of an argument.

“I said, ‘okay’.” He replies, and starts packing his supplies back into his basket. “You wanted me to stop, so I stopped. I’m not going to force you to do something you don’t want to do, especially since I offered. That’d just be silly.” 

“But, why-”

“You didn’t want me to.” He says, shrugging, and continues to put jars and tools back into his basket. 

And suddenly, she’s filled with a burning annoyance - one that doesn’t make a lot of sense when she stops to examine it. Why is he being so kind? She’s got a hand wrapped around his throat before she even realises what she’s doing. “Why are you being so kind?” She growls, and bares her teeth at him.

He doesn’t even move, just looks down at her hand with a bemused expression, and a look that suggests that he doesn’t think it’s entirely unwarranted. “Because you are my mistress,” He says, simply. “And I like you. I like doing things for you, but I don’t want to do them if you don’t want them. It’s simple.” 

Maleficent doesn’t like what she feels at his words. It’s too human, too common. It feels too much like the past.

She’s still got a hand around his throat, and she squeezes, just a little, and digs her nails into the nape of his neck.

He doesn’t wince, doesn’t flounder, just gazes at her with those wide eyes that know all too much. It’s when she brushes over the marks with the flat of her fingertips that she notices it, though - a shiver. A faint tremble up his spine.

"You are a curious little thing, aren't you?" Maleficent purrs, a little amused despite herself. "If you preach such adherence to moral rules, why don't you stop me?" 

"Because I don't want you to stop." He replies, and stares her right in the eyes, as though challenging her to continue. "...In truth, I rather like it."

"Mmmm." She huffs, a smile in her breath, and lets go of his throat. 

He just keeps looking, raven-black eyes boring into hers, and if she didn't have all the power, it'd be a little too much. She does not know much in the way of human relationships, but this, she understands. Pain, and pleasure - the knife's edge of things - this, she gets. She understands subjugation, and she understands  _ this.  _ “Kneel, Diaval. Hands behind your back.”

And he does.

She holds there so long that he shifts a little uncomfortably on his knees, and she likes it. She wants him to feel… held. But it’s too fast, and she wants- more. So much more, so she drops to her knees in front of him, her wings - now strong and trimmed and  _ better -  _ keeping her upright, and cups his cheeks. He’s cleanshaven, sharp-jawed, and she knows the wit and ferocity beneath his skin.

“Please.” He begs, barely a ghost’s breath against her skin. “Just-don’t- make me stay here.”

And she could. She could order him to stay, know that he would - because he’d never disobey her, he never had - and she could leave.

But she doesn’t want to.

Diaval understands this… form. These limitations. He’s known her longer than she’s known herself.

“My dear.” She sighs, and bends to kiss him, just a little. Just to make him  _ want  _ it. Carrot, and a stick. That’s how she’s lived her life, forever and a day.

“Mal,” he sighs, utterly loose and limp, and noses at her shoulder like a drowning man scrabbling for air. It’s like he’s wanted and waited for a very long time, and for all she knows - he has.

“Mmm, no.” Mal says, and gently pushes him away before he can get a little too familiar. “You need to wait.”

“Mal-”

“Shhhh.” She says, and tugs his tunic open with her nails, each slicing through the fabric surrounding the buttons, all dropping to the ground in a scattered pile around him.

They’re both still on their knees, but he’s squirming a little, balance a little off, and he doesn’t seem to mind when she stablises him with a wing, just goes a little slack and loose and limp.

“Mal, your-” He croaks, through a mouthful of air, but she stops him.

“Shhh, my little raven. Don’t speak.” She contemplates quieting him with a feather to the face, but the irony seems… unfitting… for the moment at hand. She wants him too, has likely done so for a while, and he is… truly a specimen under his clothing.

She had done well, in his creation. Truly, unspeakably hers. She needs to touch him.

From neck to navel, she scores wings on his chest with her nails, not deep enough to cut, not really, but enough to scratch. He shakes, trembles, hisses his way through it, but doesn’t cry out.

He’d never cry out, because he’s hers. 

A drop of blood drips from one of the marks, just over his heart, and she leans down, and licks it, tasting the warmth, the metal, the  _ life,  _ and then does he whimper, just a little. 

“My creation.” She sighs, and kisses him again, his blood sweet in her mouth. “Such a good familiar, aren’t you.”

If it were any other time, maybe he’d be offended by the term of endearment, but he’s too caught up in his own head to even be sarcastic. 

“Please, mistress,” he pants, obviously hating himself for begging, but not being able to stop. “Please let me-”

“No.” She pushes him back again, and he’s struggling, obviously, to keep upright - she knows he must be, knows his thighs must be burning, but she keeps him upright. 

He waits, doesn’t push, doesn’t pry, as she runs her palms over the marks on his chest. He gasps, writhes, falters, but doesn’t fall, and he wants-

She wants him so much. 

Diaval’s pupils are blown wide, blacker than the night, when she stops, and it’s unmistakable how she’s affected him. 

She wants him too, wants him more than she’s ever wanted any creature, or being, or Man, and it’s more than a want now, it’s a  _ need,  _ a  _ desire,  _ something forbidden and tempting and  _ right _ .

Their breaths condense together, cloudy in the frosted night, and she can’t stop her heart from hammering. 

It’s too much.

“Diaval.” She says, mouth wet.

“...yes, mistress…?” He replies, and he’s exhausted, but he’s still on his knees.

“You’re free.”

And before she can even respond, or even think, they’re down on the forest floor together, warm and writhing and  _ feeling. _

His blood is in her mouth, not quite human, not quite Man, but so right in the ways that matter.

His hands are everywhere - far more precise than they used to be - on her shoulders, under her dress, around her back - and it’s fine, it’s better than fine, because she knows that he’s not out to hurt her - not there to slice, or harm or leave.

“Gods, mistress.” He breathes, and lowers his mouth to her, before she’s crying, or sighing, or moaning - out into the forest, into her kingdom, and she doesn’t even care if they all hear, because she’s never felt like this, so taut on the end of a release- she’d never, with Men, in the past- 

“Diaval.” She chokes out, hands in his hair, and she can’t breathe in a way that makes all the sense in the world. “Just- there.”

She does not beg, she will never beg, but she does ask very, very nicely.

  
  


Later, they lie together, both covered in splotches of blood and wing oil, in the knots of the forest floor. He is blessedly quiet, she contemplative. 

It does not feel like a regret. 

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on the [ tumblr ](http://eph-em-era.tumblr.com)


End file.
